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Summer, 2933 Gilraen left her horse with the groom and hurried to the small garden where Halbeleg waited for her, not bothering to change her riding breeches for more formal clothes. Halbeleg stood near the tiny fountain where the paths met in the center. No one would ever mistake him for anything other than a lord of the Dúnedain. He had the dark-haired and grey-eyed colouring and the height that distinguished the Men of Westernesse. He was bigger-boned than Arathorn and habitually gruff, but she knew that Arathorn trusted him implicitly, and the men were pleased that he had assumed command. As she made her way along the flower-bordered paths to the center, he came limping out to meet her and caught her hands in a tight grip. Holding them together in front of him, he inspected her and seemed pleased by what he saw. “It is good that you ride out and do not brood,” he said. Gilraen gave his hands a squeeze. “The crops need overseeing, and you will want supplies soon enough. I was out with the bailiff estimating the yield of the barley. There is a field that I think should have been left fallow an extra year or perhaps turned into pasture. The grain does not thrive.” “Poor child,” he tucked her hand under his arm and led her to a bench in the shade. “You should not have to be worried with such things.” “That is fond Uncle Hal talking, not Chieftain Halbeleg.” Gilraen patted his arm as she was formally bowed onto the bench. “I would rather have things to occupy me, and the estates do need care. It took me long enough to convince everyone that I knew my job. I do not intend to relinquish my authority.” She settled herself as discreetly as she could in breeches and noted with approval that a pitcher and glasses, along with a plate of sandwiches, were in easy reach at the end of the bench. “Arathorn would hear no word against you even when he put far too much burden on you.” Halbeleg sat down next to her, his right leg straight and stiff in front of him. “He put no burdens on me that I was unwilling to bear, Uncle, and the house and the estate run smoothly. Your supplies will still come when they are needed.” Uncomfortable with the thought that her uncle assumed her care of the estates a job she wanted to be free of and not the solace she found it, she tried to change the subject. “I see you are wounded. Is there aught I can do to ease it?” “No. I thought it was just a scratch, but it did not close. The orcs are poisoning their blades. However, Elladan sang some songs over it and packed it with herbs and it is healing well now.” He took the cup of ale she had poured for him and leaned back against the bench. “You were never raised to deal with ugly wounds, Gilraen. It will do well enough till your healer can see to a new bandage.” Gilraen laughed, her trill ringing out over the garden. “Uncle,” she got out at last. “Surely you know your sister better than that? You cannot think my mother would be so lax in my education. I am daughter and wife of the Dúnedain and have changed bandages since I was old enough to hold the basin. I am not so fragile a flower.” “You ought to be,” Halbeleg grumbled. “You are still very young and very beautiful.” “Gilraen the Fair,” she agreed cordially, eyes dancing with remembered mischief. “I have been called that since the mettarë I was sixteen and the young men scuffled and fought to be my partner. My father ended up insisting I dance every dance with a different partner. I remember how upset you were when I used the name brazenly to bring myself to Arathorn’s attention. But I am a mother and a,” she looked away to hide the distress that still came too easily at the thought of Arathorn’s death. “A widow. My place is here, running things until Areg is old enough to bring home a bride.” “That is far in the future. You deserve more of a life than that.” He hesitated and then blurted out, “Arathorn said you wanted many children.” “So we did,” she turned back to him with a small smile for his discomfort at this personal information. “He envied you your family. He was hoping for more sons, though. Not that I do not love my cousins, but your son is younger than mine and he has three sisters.” “You should still have those sons, Gilraen, and not bury yourself here. You are just the age to begin thinking about marriage and many men would be happy to take you to wife. You need to meet them again, visit more. You should go home to your parents.” Gilraen stared at her hands clutched in her lap, nearly blind with sudden anger. She did not answer. The silence dragged on for long seconds. Halbeleg’s hand tentatively touched her fingers. “You are not the only one raw with grief,” he said quietly. “Arathorn was as close as a brother to me and I curse every time I give an order that he should be giving. But I do what I must do, and so must you, Gilraen.” “I care for my son’s estates and I will raise him to his place in the Dúnedain,” she said tightly, still not looking at her uncle. “What more would you have me do? I have no wish to marry again.” She heard his exasperated sigh. “You feel that way now, Gilraen, but that will not last. Your grief will fade. You should be ready to take up your place again.” “And Aragorn will be hidden in Rivendell?” She met his eyes at last, but hers were still cold. “Exactly. You need not be burdened with his education. Master Elrond is best fitted for that. You will have a new family to raise soon.” Halbeleg sounded relieved that she understood at last. Gilraen stood and paced a few steps away and back again. She stopped and faced her uncle squarely. Her voice was low and controlled. “Neither Aragorn nor the estates are a burden to me and I do not understand why you think he will be safer at Rivendell. I will send him to Master Elrond in ten years, when he is of an age to be fostered and educated as our chieftains have always been. I suppose that in ten years it is possible that my grief will fade and I will wish to remarry. Does that satisfy you?” With a groan Halbeleg levered himself upright to confront her, looking down sternly into her eyes. “No, it does not. The line of kings has to continue and Aragorn is the only heir we have. I’ll take no chances. I want Aragorn hidden and Rivendell is the safest place I know.” “Then let me go with him,” Gilraen pleaded, breaking her stiff stance and holding out her hands in supplication. Halbeleg shook his head. “It will be hard enough to keep his location a secret. You can’t both just disappear. If you go on with your life, no one will think to look for him and you can turn away all queries lightly. They will know he is safe somewhere if you are not seen to be concerned. Here, with my family, Rivendell, near Lune: he could be anywhere. If it becomes known that you are in Rivendell – and how could we keep that knowledge from spreading? – it will be obvious that Aragorn is there.” His voice softened. “I am sorry, Gilraen. Can you not do what is best for Aragorn?” “Is it best?” Gilraen’s voice shook with anger. “I think it is best that Aragorn stay with me, here. I do not believe that Arathorn would think it best that his son grow up knowing neither of his parents.” “Things are bad, Gilraen. He also might have sent Aragorn away to safety,” Halbeleg countered. “Then let me go with him,” she pleaded again. “If it is so bad that fleeing to safety is what must be done, surely Arathorn would have sent me with Areg. I could go disguised as his nurse if I may not go as his mother. I do not find the estates a burden to throw off at the first chance, but I am not so enamoured of their care that I will never relinquish them. I will teach Areg to call me by a different name. Please, Uncle, we need to be together.” Halbeleg paused and his lips twitched upwards. “A nursemaid? You? Gilraen the Fair!” His smile broadened and he chuckled and sat down again on the bench. “That is the best joke I have heard in months. How could you think to pass as a nursemaid when all Eriador looks to you and follows your fashions? And what do you suggest I tell people when they ask where you are? That you wandered away into the wild and no one could be spared to look for you?” His chuckles turned into guffaws and his eyes lit with amusement as he looked up at Gilraen. “The requests for leave from my troops would leave me short staffed indeed as they all vied to track you down first, hoping for favor.” His laughter gradually died away. He indicated that Gilraen should sit next to him. “Though you may not claim the title, you are royal, Gilraen, and cannot always please yourself. Come. There is no need for you to make such jokes. Sit down. Have some ale and we will discuss this calmly.” “I did not mean it in jest.” Gilraen sat down warily, her body sideways on the bench to face her uncle. Keeping her voice soft but determined, she said, “Areg and I should be together.” “Yes, of course, and in normal times you would be,” Halbeleg agreed. “I do not want to take him away from you. I want you to send him to Rivendell where he can be safely hidden away from all dangers until he is of age.” Gilraen turned her face to the sky as if she would find counsel written in the clouds, but they remained stubbornly plain, blank slates that nearly covered the endless blue. It seemed such a simple thing, that she and her son belonged together until he was of normal age to be fostered. She sighed and brought her gaze back to Halbeleg. She shook her head firmly. “No. I will not send Areg to Rivendell without me. You will have to rip him from my arms and I will follow you if you do.” Halbeleg started at that, eyes narrowed, and voice hard. “Do not try my patience too far, Gilraen. I am not Arathorn that you can twist me round your finger with your tears or your pleas. You think only of yourself and how much you will miss your son. I will do what I know is best for all the Dúnedain.” He reached over, gave her shoulder a quick pat and his voice took on a more normal tone. “I know you loved Arathorn. You are worn out with grief and work and cannot think straight, so I will tell you the good news.” She started to speak but he forestalled her with an upraised hand. “I brought Thorlach and his family with me. He has agreed to be my seneschal and oversee the lands and the people here. There, that is one worry lifted from you.” Gilraen sagged back against the bench in disbelief. The administration of the estates was the least of her worries. She straightened again and her voice was icy as she asked, “And if I do not want your seneschal meddling on the estates?” “Do not be foolish. The estate must have continuity and the supplies from here are vital. I dare not risk any disruption.” “Have you heard nothing that I have said?” Gilraen cried, starting to her feet. “I am not leaving. Aragorn is not leaving. I will manage the estates. I have done so for the last three years and there have been no interruptions of your supplies.” “Yes, you’ve done well. Very well,” Halbeleg said implacably but with a fond smile. “When you remarry you will have estates of your own to manage again.” “Uncle! I swear…” “No,” he again forestalled her protests, “do not swear to things you will regret. You are a beautiful young – very young – woman. Do not swear to me that you will never again marry. I would not have you feel you are breaking an oath when your grief lessens and you wish to start a new family. Sit down,” he said more firmly this time. Ignoring his command, Gilraen strode to the edge of the garden and paced an agitated circuit of the paths while she tried to marshal her thoughts. She saw Halbeleg help himself to a sandwich from the platter. He watched her movements around him in apparent unconcern for her agitation. She even thought he smiled occasionally. But her mind was blank and she found no additional arguments to offer. It seemed such a simple and obvious thing. Aragorn needed her. The thought of her son growing up without her chilled her with a deep unreasoning dread. She came to a stop at the edge of the garden and leaned against the sturdy grey trunk of a pear tree. It was majestic but had been allowed to grow far too tall to conveniently harvest its fruit. It gave the sweetest pears in the orchard, however, and she had forbidden the bailiff to do more than gently prune it as had Arathorn’s mother before her. She looked up along the trunk and a puff of stronger breeze ruffled the branches, showering her with tiny, hard missiles of immature fruit. She shivered and looked out over the familiar land. The cloud cover that had almost obscured the sun all morning was breaking up and wide patches of blue were visible to the west. The breeze was warm and mild, pungently scented with the many herbs that bordered the paths. In the distance she could see two members of the patrols that ceaselessly circled the estates, keeping off any stray intruders and watching for trouble. Her own household guard was not as well trained and not as well equipped as the Ranger garrison that protected the land. Gilraen carefully counted up the members whom she thought would be loyal to her even in the face of opposition by Halbeleg, and she came to the reluctant conclusion that they would be far too few to be effective. Effective. She grimaced and leaned her cheek against the tree trunk, obscurely soothed by the rough feel of the bark on her skin. She would not, could not, order her guard to their deaths against Halbeleg’s men to prevent them from taking Aragorn against her will. She could conjure all too real images of screams, confusion and blood as men she considered friends were cut down in the halls outside her chambers. She closed her eyes. Tears welled out, flowing unheeded down her cheeks. “Gilraen?” Her uncle’s voice was soft and questioning, very near. Her eyes flew open and she saw him looming in front of her through the blur of tears. She tensed and dashed her hands across her face. “Do not run. I am too lame to chase you through the gardens,” Halbeleg’s plea was quiet. “I am sorry, but it must be settled.” Gilraen fought to keep her voice steady but did not succeed. “Aragorn needs me, Uncle Hal. Please, let us be together. Here. Rivendell. I care not. Do not take him away. I must fight you if you try. Ten or perhaps fifteen of my guard would stand for me if I asked them and they would all be dead and the halls awash with their blood and still you would, you would….” She drew in a tremulous breath and her arms ached as she felt her screaming son being torn from her grasp by men with swords darkened and dripping with the blood of friends. There was no relief for her aching lungs. A hard lump seemed to have settled like a stone in her chest. “And Areg… alone. Please....” She felt the renewed sting of hot salt tears on her cheeks and her head swam as she struggled to find the words that would make her uncle understand how wrong his course was. Defeated, she sagged against the tree behind her, mute and helpless. Halbeleg stood dumbstruck. “You would set your guard against my men?” he got out at last. “I do not want to, but…” was her strangled reply. Halbeleg gave a growl of frustration. “It is not safe, even here. Our borders are being pressed hard this spring. This area was Cardolan, Gilraen, not the far west of Arthedain. All this land was overrun once before and could be again. Aragorn will be safe and protected in Rivendell. Loved. He’ll have a different name. One that’s not royal. And you,” Halbeleg’s voice softened, “will have a new family; more children. It will not be so bad.” “Do not take my son,” Gilraen’s moan was barely audible. The only thing solid in the universe was the tree under her hands. Gilraen clutched it, eyes closed, bark crumbling off in her fingers as she shook her head over and over in desperate denial. The silence stretched out unbearably. Halbeleg again gave a wordless snarl and reached up and shook the tree. Hard fruit peppered them, stinging as they hit unprotected skin. “If, and I say again, if I do not take Aragorn at this time, there would be conditions.” She cautiously opened her eyes, her breath coming in shuddering pants. That Halbeleg was even willing to discuss conditions meant there was hope he would not summarily take Aragorn away. “What conditions?” “If the situation deteriorates, becomes truly desperate, you will give him up willingly.” “And who is to decide if it is desperate?” she asked. “I will, if I live.” “If you…” she whispered. “I have fought for a long time and I have never seen attacks so numerous and so determined. We are hard pressed on many fronts this summer. I wish I knew why. Unless they have heard that Arathorn is dead and think we are leaderless.” He shook his head slightly to dismiss the puzzle and continued, “And you will cooperate with my seneschal, giving him his full authority and diminishing your own.” Gilraen bit her lower lip in indecision, but knew she had no real choice. “Very well. I agree to your conditions.” Scrubbing at her face with her hands to remove the tracks of tears she breathed a long sigh of relief and essayed a tentative smile. “I believe it will get better. The raids will slow.” Halbeleg held her eyes, his lips compressed into a thin line, until she dropped her gaze and turned away. “I brought thirty-four men with me. I will leave twenty of them to bolster the garrison here. We will step up the patrols, and hope.” He turned and limped towards the house. He did not look back. The memory of the scents of the summer garden was replaced with a waft of herbs just starting to scorch. Gilraen came back to the present with a start and checked that Aragorn was deeply asleep in her arms. She carefully slid him into his bed and covered him again with the light blanket. She quickly added water to the pot on the brazier and sniffed at the surface to be sure no burnt smell lingered. Adding another handful of herbs from the basket on the floor, she gave the mixture a quick stir. As she dropped the curtain across the alcove and stepped back into the bedroom, she remembered the willow-bark steeping. If she didn’t rescue it soon, it would be too bitter. Smiling ruefully, she put her memories behind her and continued with the few tasks that remained hers. |
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